The Wandering Crow
by Gaon
Summary: Mygon is a recruiter (A "Wandering Crow") of the Night's Watch, who roams the Seven Kingdoms in search for recruits after a terrible injury ended his career as a Ranger. But when the War of Five Kings breaks the Realm into chaos, this One-Winged Crow will have to deploy his full wits to survive the coming Winter and save the Night's Watch from annihilation.
1. Chapter I - The One-Winged Crow

The Wandering Crow.

There was something about the air that disturbed Mygon. Granted, as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, the putrid smell of death was not exactly unusual for the old crow, but this time there was something in the air that disturbed him. Something in the frigid Southern frontier of Castle Black seemed more foreboding than usual to him as his horse calmly approached the gates, followed by a few dozen poor souls, either recruits or prisoners sent to the Wall. Some brothers said Mygon's time as a Wandering Crow had made him soft, but the moment the cold wind hit against his skin, he felt a winter's approach, darker than ever.

Memories of his days Beyond the Wall echoed in his mind as he saw a raven fly towards the castle. "Dark wings, dark words." He thought out loud to a recruit nearby. Some low born kid who decided to join the Night's Watch after one too many tales of brave knights and dragon slayers. The young man nodded with the most stupid grin Mygon had ever seen in his twenty years as a Wandering Crow. Mygon wondered how long he'd be able to sustain that stupid grin before getting his throat slashed in the middle of the night.

The gates opened at last, and Mygon rode in alongside his many recruits.

Upon dismounting, he received a grim reminder as to why his days as a ranger were long past him: A searing pain ran across his leg, setting his muscles ablaze. Mygon winced in pain and grabbed a cane, propping himself up with it. There it was, roaring in fury like a charging bear, the wound that turned a ranger in a Wandering Crow, the shattered leg bone that ended his career beyond the Wall. Just the memory already made Mygon feel nauseous.

"Mygon!" Cried out a familiar voice. The pain in Mygon's leg started to wane as he lifted his eyes to meet Donal Noye, the one-armed blacksmith of Castle Black. He expected to see a smile, but instead was greeted with a grim expression.

Balancing himself on his cane, Mygon answered "Is there anything wrong, Donal?"

"Mormont wants to see you." Mygon could tell when Donal was trying to hide something, and this was most definitely one of those times. But Mygon simply nodded and shifted his legs in the direction of Mormont's tower. In his old age, stairs proved to be a much more threatening foe than an army of Wildlings. As he slowly crept up the steps he thought what he'd give to be fending off a giant axe-wielding Wildling instead of climbing those goddamned steps for the hundredth time.

After this tortuous journey Mygon found himself sitting in the Lord Commander's office, catching his breath and resting his leg. As he regained his strength, Mygon stroke his white beard, removing snow flocks from his faded white mane.

"You look terrible." The Old Bear looked at Mygon from the other side of the table. Behind him his crow screamed "Terrible! Terrible! Terrible!". "I've seen dead men with a healthier expression than you."

Mygon studied the Old Bear with his eyes, noticing he too had something to hide. Maybe the White Walkers had returned and nobody told him, he thought half-jokingly. That'd be about the only justifiable reason for this amount of secrecy between sworn brothers. "I've never felt better, Mormont. I still have a few wandering days ahead of me before my watch is done." He said with a grin.

Mormont prepared to speak again, but Mygon cut him off. "With all due respect, Lord Commander, but would you mind telling me what is the reason for this visit?"

"Nothing gets by you, does it?" Mormont's expression shifted between cold disapproval and some level of sympathy for the news he was about to share with Mygon. "Very well, I'll be succinct: Winter is not coming, it is here." The old commander put in a blunt manner, but Mygon could sense a feeling of dread in those words. "The night's gathering, Mygon, and it's coming for us all."

Mygon nodded in agreement, but at the same time he leaned against the chair, somewhat confused. "I agree, but any particular reason for such a foreboding warning?" Mygon took a moment to note how his feeling at the gates of Castle Black seemed disturbingly correct up until this point.

Mormont and Mygon exchanged a look. A look that any sworn brother worth his salt could identify.

Mygon's jaw dropped and his eyes widened as he desperately scurried for words.

"I've seen a dead man walk in front of my eyes, Mygon." But it was Mormont who found words to explain. "And I was standing not far from where you sit when I saw his cold, blue eyes. Eyes of the Others, looking me through a carcass of human flesh. Wishing to end all that is sacred on this world."

"They're back." Mygon concluded, wide-eyed in astonishment, "After so many centuries, they're back."

"And we need to prepare." The Old Bear's eyes returned to the table, his tone returned to commanding respect, "A long winter approaches, Mance Rayder and his Wildlings get bolder with each passing day and the Others return from the faded myths." He sighed, exasperated with the situation "We need recruits, Mygon, brothers to man the wall and its weapons. The Wall has never needed men as much as it does now."

Mygon returned to his usual senses, as if Mormont's request had brought him back from a hypnotic reflection about the fate of the Night's Watch. He quickly conceded "I will double my patrols and the length of my journey. I won't rest until this wall has more men than snow."

"Excellent." Said the Old Bear, "As for me, I am to go beyond the wall. Tired of sitting here and waiting as my rangers die in the snow. It's time to see what lurks there with my own eyes."

Mygon reminisced about the days he would join Mormont in such a dangerous path, and cursed his leg for its uselessness. "Bloody Hell, Mormont, I should be going with you." Mygon sighed, nostalgic and exasperated. "Benjen's gone, Castle Black can barely man its walls, rangers vanish with each fortnight. We need every man we have!"

"I can handle myself more than fine." Answered the Lord Commander, "And besides, that is precisely why we need you, old friend. You have a crucial task at hand: Manning this Wall before winter kills us all. Perhaps even more crucial than Ranging." The Old Bear reflected to himself.

The old recruiter sighed, whispering a curse to his mangled leg and its uselessness. How cruelly the gods mocked him, making Night's Watch as frail as it has ever been just as the Others return from their slumber, making Mygon frail in body just when bodies are needed the most.

As he took another swig, the wine tasted bitter in his lips. Perhaps the Watch's wineries had finally gone sour, or perhaps Mygon's mouth couldn't handle anything sweet after such a bitter thought.

"How many did you bring with you this time?" Mormont interrupted his thoughts brusquely. "Fourteen, fifteen?"

"Twelve." He said recollecting his thoughts. "Yoren often arrives before me and picks the cells clean. A crippled crow can only fly so far, Mormont." He shrugged.

"A crippled crow is better than a dead one, Mygon. And that's what we'll all soon be if you don't pull a thousand men out of this sleeve of yours." The Old Bear tossed a few corn crumbs to his crow, who shouted behind him: "Yours! Yours! Yours!"

Mygon reached for his wooden cane and arose from the wooden chair, cleaning the wooden cup in one final gulp. The pain in his leg worsened as he went from sitting to standing, but letting this pain be apparent would help no one, and thus he merely smiled and said: "I was a court magician, Mormont, not a wizard."

The old crow limped away, his wooden cane hitting against the floor in a unpleasant noise. But then again, Mygon himself didn't have the most pleasant of appearances: Thick grey eyebrows shadowed his eyes, and a scraggly white beard adorned his skeletal, half-dead face. From a distance he could be mistaken for a corpse (and one time, he was). While he was taller than any other brother of the Watch, he was also thinner. Some sworn brothers nicknamed him The Starving Crow for the lack of meat in his bones, in the taverns they called him the One-Winged Crow. The Wildlings, however, used to call him the Blizzard Blade. As he limped his way out of Mormont's tower, he took a moment to appreciate the fact only his enemies seemed to treat him with some respect.

As he walked past the courtyard he could hear sworn brothers talking behind his back about his injury. In rare cases he could hear one or other, of the older ones, discussing his old nickname as the Blizzard Blade and how he came to be a Wandering Crow. Others just looked at him in bewilderment, wondering what a cripple could be doing in the Night's Watch. Mygon learned to ignore the whispering of the young crows as time passed him by.

"How soon can the horse leave? Mygon emerged behind one of the table boys, frightening him.

"I believe tomorrow he'll be in prime condition." The boy answered, jumping a bit.

"Good." Was Mygon's only answer

And burying his cane in the snow he made his way across the courtyard, into the Watch's rooms and to a bed of his own, where he collapsed, groaning in mild pain. With his cane he closed the door of his chambers. The burning cold of the Wall made his leg injury hurt more, as if the wound remembered where it was made, as if it served as a warning for him not to come back.

He reached for his hip, unsheathing his sword. What a fine sword it was. That sword's new forgery was Donal's finest work since Robert's war hammer, in Mygon's humble opinion. A Bastard Sword with a beak shaped hilt and wing-shaped guard, forming a massive black steel crow. He could still hear the steel's cry when it clashed against a Wildling blade. What was the blade's name? Mygon could not recall.

Nostalgia did not ease his leg's pain. Five decades had passed him since he joined the Watch, and two since the end of his Ranging days, but time only made him wearier and wearier with each passing season. Many summers and winters he had seen, perhaps too many. Mygon reasoned this winter would probably be his last. Hopefully, his last. The life of a wandering crow had few joys to Mygon. He was born as a ranger, and by the gods, was he a good one.

"Snowstorm." He whispered to the sword, "Its name was Snowstorm."

Snowstorm, the blizzard blade, the One-Winged Crow, the Starving Crow. So many names seemed to have attached to Mygon he could barely keep track of them all. All he knew was that these names did nothing to ease his leg pain or his weariness. In the end of the day, the only thing he could rely on was his cane. Names and swords were just decorations, his cane became his only friend.

He looked at the cane and seemed mildly surprised he hadn't given it a name yet. "Old Oak fits well." He commented out loud, and seeing the words echo in his mind he found the name acceptable. Mygon chuckled, noticing how completely insane he must have looked in that chamber. He often heard tales of rangers who had gone mad beyond the wall, but Mygon didn't. He lived Beyond the Wall. His madness set in away from the Wall.

Mygon decided that it was enough reflection for one day, closed his eyes and slept, his hands gripping the Snowstorm's hilt.

He woke up to the sound of the flapping of wings. "Dark Wings, Dark Words" He muttered as his eyes opened up, finding the saying to be ring true once again. His wounded leg woke up numb, a rare blessing compared to the days Mygon would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming and sweating as his leg pulsated pain.

His old bones and muscles cracked in the same manner as the last remnants of the fire at the fireplace. As he gripped his cane and stood up from the bed, he realized he had slept in the same clothes he arrived. A depressingly common occurrence for a Wandering Crow: To forget to change clothes, or take baths.

Sniffing the air he could tell that now besides looking like a dead man, he also smelled like one. Now all he needed was to actually die, and he'd fully embrace his looks.

He placed Snowstorm back in his hip and headed out of his chambers, meeting with the same whispers of usual, just in a lazier, slower morning version.

Mygon could tell his leg would start hurting in no time and glanced at his horse. But his eyes soon gazed upon the Wall, as foreboding as it was majestic, rising above every structure known to the Westerosi. Mygon decided to take one last look before leaving.

He limped across the courtyard faster than most times, startling his sworn brothers with the strange sight of that elderly cripple almost running from one edge of the place to the other. He climbed aboard the wooden lift, which soon rose to reach the higher levels of the Wall.

There he was once again, tasting the breeze of a summer's end. He could feel in his bones, a magnificent winter approaching from the North to consume the land from the North to Dorne. He walked to the very border and looked at the horizon, seeing the old forest every ranger knew like home: the haunted woods. He could hear the whisper of the dead singing in the wind, almost like a siren's call.

Oh how he wished he was down there, searching for the Others with the Snowstorm at hand. The thought brought a grin to Mygon's face and some semblance to comfort to his old soul. But his dreams shattered when the pain came back: His leg was no longer numb, but burning like the red waste. Yet again, his wound did not fail to remind him how he no longer belonged at the Wall, much less beyond it. His home was the Kingsroad and all the paths it took.

In mild anger he stormed out, returning as fast as a cripple could to his horse. He placed his injured leg in a special harness and turned his faithful steed around, nodding for the gatekeepers to open the gate. While he gears moved he took one last glance at Castle Black, and saw not much beyond the expected: Donal Noye heading for his forge, shaking his single arm, Lord Mormont atop his tower, looking to the castle below with a mournful gaze, Alliser Thorne shouting at the recruits Mygon had brought the day before, Maester Aemon tending to his ravens. Things didn't seem to change at the Wall, thought Mygon, only he changed.

The gate opened. Mygon rode out at full gallop, with nothing but his sword, his cane and a few supplies to accompany him in the long journey ahead: He planned to ride from Winterfell to Sunspear, grabbing every single recruit, orphan or criminal in his path. His horse ran past Mole's town until the Kingsroad slithered in the horizon.

As he rode, the Wandering Crow started to think about the task he was handed; manning the wall. In this moment of reflection he noticed how there were very few Wandering Crows in the Night's Watch. Mygon could only think of one, besides himself, worthy of note: his old friend Yoren, and perhaps the finest Wandering Crow Westeros had ever known. Not the most prestigious of titles in Mygon's opinion, but certainly one of the most important.

Yoren had been a recruiter for ten years longer than Mygon himself, and had only lost two recruits in his entire career. Mygon reflected how he had lost over ten in his career. It certainly helped that Yoren had a broken shoulder instead of a leg. That bloody limb made the journey twice as long and three times as painful for Mygon.

But Mygon came to a conclusion: Perhaps it was time for the Wandering Crows to meet again. It'd be good to see the old Yoren again, and perhaps with their combined wits, the Wall could be manned before the winter arrived in full strength. Mygon would certainly enjoy having some company on the way to Sunspear, because the gods knew, it'd be a bloody long way.

Suddenly, his horse whinnied nervously, stopping Mygon's journey. The air still frigid around him as some shades of snow fell past him, Castle Black nothing more than a figure in the horizon behind him. His eyes ran through the woods and his ears patiently analyzed the sounds of the road. He identified the breathing of three men with his ears, and three cloaked figures hiding in the woods. Mygon chuckled, noticing how a Ranger never loses his senses.

He gently dropped from his horse, grabbed his cane and announced "Oath breakers of the Night's Watch. It is my solemn duty to inform you that traitors have no place amongst the living. Unless, of course, you go back and ask for forgiveness. Maybe that'll work." Mygon shrugged.

Three men emerged from the woods. By their physical stance and appearance, he could tell all three were low-born. One of them had the body, sword grip and eyes of a veteran soldier, the other two, who seemed to be brothers, were probably baker's sons or some such. All three were armed, two with knives, and the former soldier had a sword.

"You came to hunt us?" Asked the soldier, uneasy.

"I met you by chance, I assure you." Mygon, Snowstorm still in its sheath, calmly balanced his weight on his cane. "I have every intent of either killing you or bringing you back to the Wall, however, and that is non-negotiable."

"Back to that place?" The soldier scoffed "I served the Lannisters my whole life, killed my first man when I was eight, raped my way one maiden to another until it left me to that frigid Hell, and I did not mutter a single complaint for a year." He furiously explained, gripping the sword's hilt stronger "But when I heard the dead began to rise? No. I refuse! I will not waste my life there any longer!"

"Ah, a rapist. How delightful." Said Mygon in a mocking tone with a smile on his face. As a recruiter of the Watch he had seen his fair share of rapists, but if there was one type of recruit that never ended well, it was a rapist. Stupid, lust-filled killers with no time for strategy and no sense of loyalty. "And you decided to drag these two along with you."

"They came out of their own will." He nodded to the other two, who nervously clutched their knives. "Now please, out of the way. I do not want to kill an old man, but I will if I have to."

Mygon watched the deserter. He inhaled and exhaled nervously, taking a long time to do each. Mygon waited. When the man was done exhaling and about to begin inhaling, Mygon leaped in one leg and slashed his face with his wooden cane. The soldier fell to the floor, nose bleeding, caught in utter surprise.

The other two advanced, Mygon merely smacked one in the face with the cane and, unsheathing the Snowstorm, disemboweled the other. Jumping over in one leg he turned around, seeing the former soldier slowly rising back up, and moaning in pain.

With the Snowstorm he cleaved the man's head in two in the blink of an eye, watching as his blood gushed out of the wound as his body dropped to the ground, nearly headless. The other deserter charged, knife in hand, but received such a brutal hit of Mygon's cane that his skull cracked with a horrible noise of bone shattering. The deserter fell backwards, having convulsions on the floor.

Mygon cleaned the Snowstorm on his black coat. He saw the deserter writhing, choking on his own saliva, his eyes rolled back and his head shaking nervously. Mygon kneeled and slit his throat, finally ending his suffering. "And now his Watch has ended." Grimly commented Mygon, considering that these days, deserters outnumber genuine sworn Brothers.

He glanced at the two dead boys. Green boys who probably had never met a woman before joining the Watch. He had about their age when he took his vows, and this depressed Mygon. Youth wasted on deserters and cowards, who preferred to see break an oath to face a winter. He considered burying them, but as these thoughts rushed in his head, he instead did the exact opposite.

He severed their heads and making makeshift spikes out of wooden branches, he placed each head on a spike by the side of the road, as a warning to future deserters. Mygon had lost count how many times his wanderings made him cross paths with a deserter, and how many of them he had to butcher. Up until that point, Mygon had respectfully buried them like a sworn brother ought to. But in that moment, Mygon was sick of treachery, sick of cowardice, sick of disrespect for the sacred vows. The time for charity ended with the summer. Winter is the time of fear, and fear is what Mygon would bring to deserters.

He mounted his horse again and rode South, leaving behind the corpses and heads of the three deserters. His mind turned attention to the road ahead. The last time he heard of Yoren, he was headed to King's Landing to find recruits with the new Hand, Lord Eddard. Mygon had a lot of sympathy for the Starks, Benjen himself was the finest Ranger he ever followed. Apparently Ned's bastard had also taken the black, which made Mygon eve more impressed: Even a half-Stark seems to be worth more than all other men in Westeros, thought Mygon.

Night fell upon the Kingsroad, and Mygon soon found himself walking in a random inn by the side of the road. Walking inside it showed to be barely habitable, with no more than sixteen men filling the tables, drinking merrily away all their problems. A bunch of farmers and merchants of no importance to the Watch. Doubtful he'd find recruits there.

"Oh, One-Winged Crow, One-Winged Crow!" A voice echoed in the room, drawing attention to the bard. Every man, sober or drunk, turned eyes to the singer, and following his line of sight they found Mygon, the titular one-winged crow. "Fly fly, One-Winged Crow! No matter how high you fly, you'll fall in the snow! Oh One-Winged Crow, One-Winged Crow! Your sword is just for show!" The patrons at the inn laughed uproariously, probably because of their drinks.

Mygon sighed in exasperation, wondering just why the concept of a crippled member of the Night's Watch seemed to attract bards out of the woodwork. Every other inn he wandered in seemed to end up in a bard singing about the fabled One-Winged Crow. If the bard were sympathetic to the Watch's plight, he'd make a fairy tale hero of the One-Winged Crow: A brave hero who conquered monsters of all kinds despite his injury. If the bard were less charitable, as was the case in that particular inn, he'd instead make a tune mocking the concept of a Wandering Crow with a single wing. Not exactly the hardest jest to make, or the more original.

Mygon ignored and walked past the laughter, approaching the innkeeper. A robust man with a friendly face and a thick moustache. "Wine, I take it, Mygon?"

Mygon nodded affirmatively. "And preferably a few recruits on the side."

"I'm an innkeeper, not a miracle-worker Mygon. I can't produce recruits out of the thin air." The man defended himself, pouring a cup of wine to the One-Winged Crow as the bard continued to make a mockery out of Mygon's career. Mygon took the bottle and the cup and limped away to a table and enjoyed a bottle of wine by himself.

Mygon found amusing how Yoren attracted no such attention wherever he went, except for one or two bards who sang of the Filthy Crow, but those songs were never popular with the public. Often too vulgar for their tastes. But the One-Winged Crow always managed to rouse the audience. There was something striking about the concept that found its way into the hearts of every drunkard and every bard from the Wall to Sunspear. It got the point some Lords started to greet him as the fabled One-Winged Crow. Mygon supposed he couldn't complain: The songs earned him some fame, which made some Lords and Ladies more willing to cooperate with prisoners and aid to the Night's Watch, so in a way, he thought he should thank the bards, perhaps.

"Oh One-Winged Crow, oh One-Winged Crow!" the bard sang again in a very high-pitched voice, "You will die with just one blow!"

Upon further thought, perhaps not. Mygon continued to drink away the bottle in peace, while the bard's song slowly died down as the joke grew stale amongst the patrons of the inn. Such was the usual occurrence. Ina few minutes Mygon wouldn't be remarked by anyone at all.

As he savored the wine Mygon thanked the Seven how Wandering Crows didn't have to pay for their drinks and food. He reflected how this life led him to savoring all kinds of wine and fod, from the lowest inn at the edge of the North to the finest wines of House Redwyne all over Highgarden. This was one of the few parts of the job Mygon seemed to truly enjoy, the variety of foods and of course, people.

As if the Seven sought to ruin even this small joy in Mygon's life, the bard got up from his chair and drunkenly walked up to Mygon, sitting in a nearby chair. The bard smiled like a idiot and said in a barely comprehensible slurred speech "What's a crow doing so far from his nest?"

Mygon wondered why the bard asked questions he already knew the answer, but simply answered "The Watch needs men, and men can often be found in inns."

"Or prisons." The bard's speech stabilized, becoming more comprehensible. His very eyes seemed to shift into something more sober, "Don't you remember me? You took my brother all the way to the Wall."

Mygon struggled to remember the man but he couldn't. Too many recruits. "I can't say I do, no." And thus he took another sip of the wine.

"Of course you don't." Said the Bard mockingly, "You only remember your bloody vows and your bloody Wall. Such brave warriors you are, taking away boys from their homes that did nothing but some small crime and carrying them to death. How do you even sleep at night?"

Seeing the man's tone rise, Mygon placed one of his hands in the grip of his blade. With the other hand he poured more wine on his cup, calmly stating "I sleep very well. It's an ugly job, minstrel, but someone has to do it. The Wall needs men."

The bard spit in the floor in disgust. He stood up and knocked over the cup and the bottle from Mygon's hand, letting them shatter in the ground, spilling the wine all over the floor. "A pity, really, I rather enjoyed this wine." Commented Mygon dryly.

The bard grasped a knife and Mygon stood up with the aid of his cane, hand in the sword's grip.

The wandering crow glanced around the inn, finding looks of utter dread in every face and complete silence in every room. Killing a bard would help in nothing his search for recruits, thought Mygon. He released the sword's hilt and sat back down, diffusing the situation.

The patrons went back to talking, singing, cheering and drinking. But the Bard looked at him with some disgust.

"Coward." Said the Bard, spitting in the floor again. "To the Seven Hells with you, Crow. I tell you this: I'll make my mission in life to ruin any possibility of you getting any recruits. I will give shelter to criminals and deserters if that's what it takes to ruin your bloody Order. Fuck the Night's Watch and fuck you." The bard turned around and vanished in the halls of the inn.

Mygon scanned around the room, noticing something he already suspected: As usual, many shared the bard's opinion. As the bard passed around, many patrons cheered or raised a glass to him. Some even paid him a drink.

Mygon was used to this hatred by now, of course. Wandering Crows were never really popular with the common folk, but Mygon must have been of a particular brand of hate, because most were uncooperative at best and outright antagonistic at worst towards his attempts at finding recruits.

Truth to be told, Mygon couldn't blame them for being furious: Many peasants saw family members, husbands, wives and friends being dragged away to the Wall, never to be seen again. All that pain had to eventually become hatred, and of course the easiest target was the figure of the wandering crow, the boogeyman that captured children from their beds and took them to serve on the Wall.

Mygon shrugged and arose from the table. That was more than enough thinking for one night for the fabled One-Winged Crow. He limped past most chambers, only stopping at the very last chamber. A lonely, forgotten place with just one bed and a pot for the necessities next to the stables. The life of a Wandering Crow led him to many inns, but one thing was certain: He'd always have the worst room of the entire place.

Of course even as terrible as the bed was, it was still far superior to his locations at the Wall and for that he thanked the Seven. As usual he slept grasping his sword, a habit he picked up Beyond the Wall and stood with him ever since. Mygon's eyes slowly closed, and soon he was no longer in the nameless inn of the far North, now he stood in the middle of the snow, watching over the hills.

In the fogs of his memory he saw the frozen hills Beyond the Wall, the snow whipping him like a dog. But he could take it, his leg was good once again and his body felt younger than ever. Behind him stood Sworn Brothers, rangers like him, whose faces and names he could not recall. But he could remember they were thirteen all told. Thirteen rangers, wandering in the snow on the hunt for a Wildling pack.

One of the thirteen called him "Mygon! Over the hill top!" He recognized that voice. Yes, yes, it was Qhorin, Qhorin Half-Hand, back when he had the whole hand. The anonymous figure acquired a face and solid form once again before Mygon's eyes.

He looked over the hill top, and there, emerging over the snow, he saw a small battalion of Wildlings charging, howling like wolves, frothing like dogs, shaking their weapons like a charging bear with his fangs. A wolf pack would have been less noisy and less brutal. They were 70, maybe 80. Maybe a hundred. Mygon could not remember.

He could remember, however, a tall man, with two battle-axes on his back, long red beard flowing in the wind. It was Stone son, chief of some Wildling tribe Mygon could not remember. Stone son had been conducting raids and massacres against members of the Watch and sympathizers.

"Retreat!" Screamed Qhorin, turning around to run to the other direction. As Qhorin wisely remembered that moment, they had been sent to find him, not to battle him. A fact Stone son made irrelevant the moment he ambushed them.

Mygon ran away from Stone Son's pack and by the Seven, he was fast. He outran his entire Ranger party in a matter of seconds, and as such had the astounding luck of witnessing as another pack of Wildlings came screaming from the other side of the camp. Surrounded by both sides, the thirteen stood their ground.

A fraction of a second before the armies clashed Mygon's eyes gazed upon the morning light. Slowly, the vision dissipated and he realized he was once more in the small room at the end of some forgotten inn. An expected disappointment for Mygon. He often dreamed of his days as a Ranger, and it always disappointed him to wake up, having left those days behind.

Much unlike his dream, his body creaked noisily and painfully when he stood up, cracking bones and muscles. His leg was once again mangled, and he probably would have been trampled underfoot by the twelve other Rangers nowadays. Mygon grasped his cane and placed his sword back on his hip.

The inn, unlike Castle Black, was more or less asleep in the early morning lights. Drunkards still slept merrily in every corner and not a soul lingered on the halls, barring one or other prostitute that hurriedly crossed the halls half-naked.

Mygon went directly for his steed, and after a few minutes, he found himself in the Kingsroad again. Deciding that he wasted enough time amongst drunks and bards, he rode ever faster, hoping to reach as soon as possible the Last Hearth, where he hoped to find some recruiting material. House Umber had always been a good friend of the Watch.

Soon enough, he spotted two men on horseback, clad in armor. A banner trembling behind them. Mygon recognized the symbol of the Umbers (a chained giant) and thanked the Seven for such a good horse. The two men stopped besides him, pointing their spears at his face.

"Who goes there?" Asked one of them.

Mygon chuckled, wondering why the man couldn't tell he was a member of the Night's Watch. "I'm Mygon of the Night's Watch. I am looking for recruiters and prisoners to man the Wall. I wish to be taken to your Lord, if that isn't much trouble."

The two studied him for a few seconds, and one of them concluded. "Sincere apologies, my Lord Mygon, we did not recognize you." The horses turned around and throttled forwards. Mygon followed them, chuckling at the concept of Lord Mygon. He wondered why so many people seemed to miss the entire point of the Night's Watch having no Lords or Sirs, attributing every single relevant Sworn Brother a noble title.

Mygon continued to ride until he gazed upon the eye of the blizzard: The Last Hearth, justifying its name by standing tall and alone, the last castle of the North before Castle Black. Some castles were noticeably built to look grand and magnificent, royal. But Mygon's eyes saw no royalty or wealth in that castle, instead he saw walls as thick and as brute as the men who resided inside it. The Last Hearth was built to wage war, not to receive guests, and thus looked as grim as a bloodied battlefield. And what a grim place it was, indeed.

No sooner he crossed the gates he was received by a giant behemoth of a man, a titanic, muscular individual who resembled more a shaved bear than a human being: Greatjon Umber, holding the ugliest, most foreboding blade of recent memory in his hip.

"The One-Winged Crow!" Greatjon laughed heartily, walking towards Mygon. With his massive arms he lifted the Sworn Brother in the air like an infant and placed him down slowly, handing him his cane. Mygon always hated when he did that, but he also couldn't help but laugh. "Welcome to our home!" The Greatjon hugged Mygon, nearly shattering his bones.

"Lord Umber." Mygon took a respectful bow, recovering his breath. "Haven't given up on the Watch yet, I see."

Mygon and Greatjon soon found themselves in the halls of the Last Hearth, great and expansive, but containing the grim aspect that colored every corner of that castle. A few plates containing roast beef, sliced onions and wine could be seen in one of the smaller tables. Greatjon sat down in one end, while Mygon sat in the other.

"A minstrel once told me a story where you fought and killed an entire battalion of Night's Watch deserters using only your walking stick and your wits. Is that true?" The Greatjon inquired with a grin, perhaps already expecting the answer.

Mygon laughed. "I'm afraid the bards exaggerated with that one. The one about me flying in a giant crow from the Wall to the Red Waste is true, though." Warned Mygon with a half-joking tone.

"Lying to a Lord is a serious crime, Starving Crow." The Greatjon's laughter roared again, nearly deafening Mygon. "But jokes aside, what brings you here my friend?"

It amused Mygon to no end how often people asked him that despite knowing the answer. "Men, for the Wall. Perhaps some good food." He drank from the wine and took a bite out of the beef. Both far superior to any food provided in the Wall or the inns on the way, yet still a bit hard on the teeth compared to the softer meals of the royal court in King's Landing. But, hey, who was Mygon to complain?

Greatjon gave the request some thought, and when he prepared to give an answer, out of the door came hurriedly a slightly smaller man than the Greatjon, yet positively massive all the same. Mygon could recognize in him the Smallljon Umber, Greatjon's heir. In his face, an expression of sheer worry.

"What happened?" Greatjon lifted his eyes to meet him.

The Smalljon scoffed nervously and handed him a letter.

Greatjon unfolded the paper, and for a moment, Mygon saw the titan's face grow as pale as the snow, his jaw drop as low as the floor and his eyes widen like a blossoming Northern flower. He read the contents out loud to Mygon "Lord Stark has declared Joffrey as a false King. He's awaiting trial for treason in one of the black cells. His son has summoned the banners." He said incredulously, as if he had a hard time believing his own words.

Mygon's shock mirrored the Greatjon's. Honorable Eddard Stark, man of the winter, a traitor? His son preparing for war? In one fell swoop Mygon's view changed. He saw the North marching against the South, the Wolf against the Lion. A battle that would end up dragging down the entire Realm with them. Soon the Seven Kingdoms would be marching against one another in a bloody struggle.

With the longest winter and an army of Others marching in their doorstep, the Realm still found time to sink into a civil war. Mygon sighed in disgust at the politics of the nobles and their conspiracies, noticing how they forgot the cold of the winter, and seemed only focused on the pleasantries of the summer. And yet, saving their flowery seats was Mygon's goal in life. The irony did not escape the One-Winged Crow.

But in this storm of thoughts, something came to Mygon. "He may be sentenced to the Wall."

Greatjon stared at him, confused. "Lord Stark may be sentenced to the Wall." He clarified, nervous. The thought of Ned Stark in the Wall sent a chill down his spine, because of how much it seemed like fate that the patriarch of House Stark and one of the greatest men of the Seven Kingdoms to be sent to the Wall just as Winter is about to grasp the land. Mygon had decided: He would bring Ned Stark to take the black whatever the cost.

"Outrageous!" Greatjon's thunderous scream of wrath broke Mygon's trail of thought. "If these Southern bastards think they can get away with this treason, I will prove just how wrong they are!" He punched the wooden table so hard the wood cracked, almost splitting in two.

"Son, gather the troops. I want every able man with a sword in his hand and ready to march. We're heading to Winterfell!" He barked. Smalljon faithfully heeded and left the room in a hurry. Greatjon turned his head to Mygon, and the old crow could now fully see just how wrathful the Greatjon looked: His eyes narrowed, his teeth gritted, his eyes became full of tempest. The image reminded Mygon of a charging bear. "Mygon, you are free to grab whatever scum you find in my dungeons, but I sadly cannot stay here to aid you, for duty brings me South."

Mygon nodded to him with an expression of understanding. If there was a man who knew about the price of honor, it was Mygon and his fifty years of unbroken vows at the Wall. But another thought came to Mygon: Yoren was already at King's Landing, recruiting for the Watch. Yoren, however, was unaware of what Mormont had told him about the Others, about the winter. Mygon's plans changed.

"I appreciate your hospitality and your request, my Lord. The Night's Watch will never forget your honor." Stated Mygon, taking a bow out of genuine respect. "But much like yourself, I must head South. I hope your swords bring justice to Lord Stark, my Lord, but if all proves to be in vain, the Watch will be there to redeem Lord Stark's honor."

Greatjon reflected about Mygon's words for several seconds. But ultimately he grinned and offered his hand. "If the Gods are just, we will meet in King's Landing for a drink."

Mygon grinned as well and shook his hand. "If the Gods are just." His tone, however, was considerably more cynical than the Greatjon, for Mygon was all too aware the gods were anything but just. Mygon and the Greatjon turned their backs on one another and walked to different paths: Both men were marching to war, but they would traverse very different paths.

When Mygon reached his horse, his leg pulsated with pain once again. A bad omen, Mygon knew, but when you live in the Night's Watch, almost everything you see becomes a bad omen of some sort. Mygon rode out of the gates of the Last Hearth with one direction in mind: King's Landing. Mygon knew the journey would be far, and there would be many dangers along the way, but he did not knew just how many.


	2. Chapter II - An Oath From Ice

Chapter II – An Oath From Ice.

…

Mygon's eyes glanced over the Last River.

The water seemed to be as frigid as the air surrounding it, and the edges of the lake had already turned to ice. A frozen forest provided a minimal shelter from the cold, unforgiving weather of the far North, but only minimal, and the entire place had a distinctly desert feeling to it. Mygon couldn't see men or beasts anywhere, barring a few unnerving howls in the distance. He had seen his fair share of Direwolves for an entire lifetime, and facing them again was an experience he wished not to repeat.

But a figure disturbed the feeling of silence and loneliness, a sleek wooden ship, crossing the frozen waters as fast as possible. Black sails, black wood, and a few hard men guiding the helm. Mygon recognized the design as a raiding ship from the Iron Islands, but he also openly wondered what on earth a raiding ship from the Iron Islands would be doing in the Last River.

The ship slowed down as it passed him by. "Who goes there?" Asked a man clad in a filthy black coat with black-colored teeth in his maw and a bald head full of scars. Mygon noticed he was carrying a small battle axe on his hip, as were most of his crew mates, who looked similarly grim.

Mygon took a bow. "I am Mygon, of the Night's Watch. I seek passage to King's Landing, or perhaps to the Shivering Sea."

"I am Darren Left-foot, this is my crew." He nodded to the men behind him, "And this is the _Sea Lady_, my ship." The Captain smiled a terrifying black-teeth grin to Mygon in a failed attempt to look friendly. He then mused Mygon's request for some seconds, licking his blackened teeth nervously and answered "Well we can take you there, for a price. We happen to be headed to King's Landing."

"Wonderful." Said Mygon, smiling in gratitude to Darren. Mygon turned around and whistled to his faithful steed. The horse turned around and ran at full speed towards the North. Mygon knew the horse would find his way to Castle Black.

He climbed aboard the _Sea Lady _as quickly as a cripple could do it, and soon he found himself walking among the suspiciously looking Ironborn. He saw a few of them transporting wooden crates from one side to another of the deck, and analyzing its contents and noticing the wood craft and symbols belonged to varying lands.

Mygon rationalized that crates of every part of Westeros plus a few from Essos could be found in that ship. They were either very extensive merchants or, more glaringly obvious, pirates. But if they were pirates, why pick up an unremarkable Wandering Crow? Would that not only provide further attention? And then he realized: Not pirates. Smugglers.

They were merely transferring the stolen cargo safely, and decided to carry a man for some extra payment. Clever, thought Mygon.

His conclusions only proved to be more correct when Darren introduced him to three other figures: A nervous looking young man, glancing over his shoulder periodically with the distinctive air of a man running from something, an old man clad in ragged Maester clothes with a lost gaze in the horizon and a small child, just cheerfully playing with a wooden toy.

Darren produced an onion from his sleeve and took a large bite of it as he explained, calmly "This is Mott the Farmer" He pointed to the young man, who looked at Mygon nervously and weakly smiled. "This is Maester Aerys and the boy is his protégé, Robb."

Mygon's face shifted to a frown, "Aerys, as in the Mad King?"

The Maester chuckled, "What can I do, my Lord, I was born during the reign of Aerys the First and my mother saw fit to homage him. A man does what a man can." And he shrugged with another hearty chuckle. Young Robb laughed along, despite Mygon being near-certain he was not paying attention to this entire conversation.

"They're all headed to King's Landing?" Asked Mygon towards Darren, who took another massive bite off the onion.

"Yes. A remarkable coincidence, is it not?" Darren grinned with some malice and turned around, heading for the helm without saying another word. In no time he was barking commands and mild threats to his shipmates over the control of the _Sea Lady_'s movement.

The journey across the Last River proceeded calmly. There were no storms or ship-wrecking waves on the Last River, the only obstacles being frozen pieces of water that deterred the ship's movements for a few moments before the ship's hull shattered them apart.

And yet, there was something uneasy in the air for Mygon. The silence of the Last River unnerved him, the deep woods ever unmoving, staring back at him in every corner. Mygon felt something was watching him all the way. Perhaps the old gods were alive after all, lurking amongst the lands of the Umbers with their ever-watchful eyes staring from the trees. Or perhaps the wolves eagerly waited for prey, and were merely biding their time until the _Sea Lady _was forced to make a brief stop to restock its supplies. Or perhaps river thieves lusted for their gold and silver.

That utter silence seemed to open Mygon's mind to a thousand possibilities, each more grim and threatening than the last. The mind of a wandering crow often reaches dangerous places when the air is still enough, thought Mygon, remembering of what he once said to Mormont when questioned why so many wandering crows deserted.

To avoid going mad over the paranoia of his mind, Mygon took some time to analyze his ship companions. He soon noticed Mott avoided him at all costs out of sheer terror, and never even looked at him unless strictly necessary. Why, thought Mygon, what would he have to fear? Mygon kept studying him across the trip.

After analyzing the manner he rubbed his hands, Mygon stumbled upon a curious discovery: Mott's hands were actually not at all like a farmer's. He had thin, nimble hands that moved quickly and stealthily through the air. Mott had probably never picked up a shovel in his entire lifetime, much less worked as a farmer. That man was a thief.

A thief who seemed mysteriously afraid of a wandering crow, wanted to go to the other side of Westeros for no reason and lied about his past. Mygon sadly concluded that Mott was also a deserter of the Night's Watch. Mygon's duty would be to kill him there and then, to end his life as an oath-breaker, but the One-Winged Crow knew that smugglers do not play by the rules of the Watch, and killing one of their passengers in the middle of the trip would probably spell a gruesome death for Mygon.

Knowing he was sharing the boat with a damned oath-breaker of the Watch only made Mygon more unnerved by the trip. He turned his eyes to the Maester and the boy, and what he found was equally disturbing, if somewhat less rage-inducing; in the Maester he noticed the horrible state of his clothes and his skin. Judging by the charred pieces of cloth in his robe, the Maester had recently been caught in a fire and for some reason, chose not to change his clothes. Most likely, someone was chasing him, thought Mygon.

Why would someone try to kill a Maester? Mygon figured the answer would probably be found on the boy, but much to his surprise, he saw nothing unusual about that child, a black-haired, strong-jawed orphan child in ragged clothes like many others Mygon saw in his lifetime. The best explanation the Wandering Crow could come up with was that the Maester had broken his vows of chastity and sired a son, for which he was persecuted.

So, much to Mygon's chagrin, he discovered he was sharing a boat with not one, but two oath-breakers running away from their responsibility. "Marvelous." He stated dryly to himself as he discovered that the ship and the forest were both equally unnerving and full of terrifying possibilities. He sighed as he realized a wandering crow's mind never rests.

The _Sea Lady_ was eventually stopped at Darren's command when the ship came across a portion of the lake that happened to be entirely frozen. Darren and his men got down, and wielding pickaxes broke the ice apart blow by blow in a slow and tedious process, while Mygon and the others waited in the ship. Mygon reflected how unusual it was for a portion of the Last River to be fully frozen in such time of the summer.

"Winter is coming, as the Starks say." Maester Aerys concluded, looking at the frozen river. "The air is getting colder as the days pass us by, Sor Mygon."

"Indeed." Mygon ignored the royal title given him again and merely agreed. "And this has been the longer summer of history. I believe the winter will be longer still and as unforgivable as the executioner's hand."

The Maester laughed, "Men of the Wall, always so grim and somber. Always going on about the Wall, the winter, the Others and the things that lurk in the dark."

"And that amuses you?" Inquired Mygon, intrigued.

Aerys shrugged, "We are both of an ancient order, Mygon, and we both cannot father sons, inherit lands, or feel a woman's embrace. We both dedicate our lives to protecting the Realm, and we cannot take parts in the quarrels of Kings. The Maesters and the men of the Watch are not so different, after all." Analyzed the Maester with a thoughtful stare to the horizon. "And yet, we heal, help in birthing, enlighten men and dress ourselves in white. We are guardians of knowledge and life. You kill, bind and fight while dressed in black. You guard over a realm of myths and death."

Mygon had never thought about it that way, but now it seemed so clear. "Two edges of the same knife." Concluded Mygon.

Aerys nodded in approval. "And that, my friend, is what amuses me."

The One-Winged Crow however, remembered what he found out about Aerys. He cautiously commented "But only one of us knows what it means to break an oath."

Aerys frowned in bewilderment, staring at Mygon with his eyebrows burying into his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

Mygon turned his head to face the Maester, and prepared to give a proper answer when Mygon noticed something in the forest behind him. He squinted his eyes, noticing a flock of ravens taking flight in the nearby trees. Mygon turned his head around to face the other side of the river, and saw more ravens taking flight in unison. Worry grew in his soul and his expression as he realized what this meant.

"Disturbed ravens." He muttered to himself.

"Darren!" He desperately shouted to call the captain's attention, but in the following moments, when Darren turned around to face him, he had an arrow sticking out of his neck and blood gushing over in the snow. Darren Left-foot crumbled over, dead. A barrage of arrows followed from both sides of the river, piercing many of the Ironborn with uncanny skill.

"Oh by the Seven!" The Maester gasped, eye-widened towards the rain of iron that now fell over the ice-covered river. Many arrows hit their targets, but a multitude just lodged into the ice, sticking out like tombstones in a cemetery, slowly gathering a field of arrows over the ice.

"Take cover!" Shouted Mygon as an arrow flew past his head, narrowly missing his hair. Mott, Aerys and Robb hid behind the _Sea Lady's_ thick wooden carcass and laid in waiting. Mygon stuck his head out periodically, glancing over the place the shots came from. He counted about two dozen archers to the left, and twice that number on the right.

"And?" Asked Mott desperately, looking at Mygon. Over the screams of the dying crewmembers below, the Wandering Crow noticed Mott, Aerys and Robb were all looking directly at him, depositing all their hopes of survival in his person. Mygon nervously clutched the hilt of his blade and cursed the Seven in his mind, wondering just how rotten his luck could be for him to stumble upon a band of river thieves so far up North.

But blasphemy didn't help him think faster, neither did gripping his sword, a useless weapon to this situation. Mygon's eyes ran over the ship's hull as fast as humanly possible, memorizing every single item in his sight: Crates, torches, a few pickaxes and spare swords, lanterns and a dozen barrels of wine. Nothing of immediate assistance.

An arrow landed an inch away from Aerys's leg as he shouted "Mygon!"

"Mott!" Mygon shouted in return. "Check what's in those crates!"

The supposed farmer stubbornly shook his head, paralyzed in fear.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Mygon sighed in a mixture of exasperation and hatred as his eyes ran over Aerys, who was clearly too old and Robb. With a hint of regret in his voice he called out "Robb! Check what's in those crates!"

The cheerful child nodded proudly and ran, dogging a multitude of arrows to reach all the wooden crates, knocking over the lid of one after the other in quick succession and loudly announcing its contents. Mygon was disappointed to learn that all the crates contained were a variety of foods and plants. But his mind clicked when he heard the child shout one of the crates contained several flasks of a substance he could not identify.

Mygon rolled over to the crate, bypassing several falling arrows. One look and he identified the substance as Sweetsleep. In small amounts used to relax, but in higher doses enough to kill a man. Mygon smiled when he saw that for the first time, the gods smiled to him.

Not for long, thought Mygon, when an arrow grazed his coat and narrowly avoiding his skin. He grasped one of the flasks and tossed to the child, who caught readily. Mygon mentally noted how the child seemed more loyal and willing to listen than most of his sworn brothers. "Three drops in each barrel of wine. Go!" He shouted.

The nimble child did not need to be told twice. With the flask in hand it jumped and leaped away from each falling arrow until he reached the barrels, and faithfully obeyed to Mygon's request. With the wine now poisoned, Mygon could see that the arrows had stopped falling. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the attackers were now advancing on foot towards the ship.

Mygon quickly stood up with the aid of his cane. He first sealed the crate of Sweetsleep and kicked it into the ship's cargo hold. Thinking on his feet he shattered several lanterns with his cane, allowing the tar to drip over the deck of the _Sea Lady_ until it was almost overflowing with tar. The attackers climbed aboard the very moment Mygon light up a torch and menacingly moved it towards the tar ridden ship.

"If any of you lifts a finger I'll burn us all like offerings to the gods." Stated Mygon.

One of the attackers, a thin man with an even thinner moustache, nodded to his fellow men in a command to stand down. All men lowered their weapons. Mygon noticed they were very different people, containing both of old and young, lame and healthy, and their ranks seemed to contain Westerosi from all corners of the Realm. These were no ordinary raiders, thought Mygon.

"Very well." The man with a moustache spoke in a Northern accent, a local from the Last River if Mygon had to guess. "We can see that you are a Crow, and we assure we mean you no harm. Just drop the torch and we'll grant you safe passage over the river. Our business is not with you."

Mygon arched one of his eyebrows. Business? They were not thieves, these men were assassins, hired specifically to attack that vessel. It was not happenstance that Mygon thought he was being watched. A crew of assassins had been following the ship the entire journey. But why? "I don't care. Let the Maester, the child and the man go and I'll drop the torch and you may have me as a hostage."

The man with the moustache chuckled "That is the exact opposite of my proposition, Crow. Please don't make this difficult."

"Oh but I am." Mygon grinned with audacity. "I am the shield that guards the realms of men, and it just so happens you seem to be attacking the realms of men. Let them go or we'll burn like a roasted stag."

The man glared at Mygon with impotent rage for several seconds, until he nodded to his men and spoke, rage bleeding through his words "Let them go."

And thus his attackers let the master, the farmer and the child jump off the ship and run through the ice until they vanished in the thick trees in the distance, vanishing from Mygon's line of sight.

The leader stared at Mygon anxiously. "What now, crow?"

Mygon briefly stuck his head out of the ship's deck to look at the ice below. Mygon was not a gambling man, but at that particular time of his life, he discovered he had no choice but to gamble with the Seven. He looked at the man and grinned, saying "Now we burn."

He dropped his torch in the tar. With a loud roar the fire expanded over the deck, clinging to the wood and spreading ever-faster, licking the sky like a snake's tongue and consuming the mast with increasing hunger. The attackers backed away in horror and dread from the flames, while Mygon watched the fire run up to him.

Using all the strength of his last working leg he leaped away from the deck, falling into the ice below. The combined momentum of the fall added to his weight caused the ice to shatter, as Mygon predicted, and the one-winged crow was soon swallowed by the frosty waters of the Last River, sinking below the deep, blue and still water with no sign of coming back.

Of course, none of the attackers saw this chain of events. Most were blinded by the fire, running away from it, or screaming loudly as their bodies were consumed by the flames. In their eyes Mygon just vanished out of the thin air after a few moments, probably burned to a crisp by the flames. As he sunk further into the depths, Mygon saw their despair did not proceed for long. The tar was not enough to produce too much fire, and soon it died down.

The last things Mygon heard before closing his eyes was the muffled sound of leader of the attackers barking his men to find the targets and eliminate them. The One-Winged Crow did not move his wing for several moments, letting the water carry him below, ever darker, ever colder, like the hands of the Old Gods dragged him down to Hell with each second. Down there, Mygon thought for what it seemed an eternity if it wouldn't be better to just let himself sink and die. To let his watch end there and follow to the halls of his fathers, having fulfilled his purpose.

So many had died under his watch, so many would die. He had seen so much suffering, and would see so much more. Mygon reflected that no matter what he did, the suffering would continue. For fifty years he stood with the Watch, fulfilling his vows without a fault, and yet winter was on its way, a war gathered across Westeros and the Others crawled their way to the Wall.

It all seemed fruitless to Mygon. Pointless. To let eternity embrace him seemed so much simpler. He was ready to let himself fall into the darker waters when something echoed in his mind, something from five decades ago, when he was nothing but a child pretending to be a man. "Night gathers, and so my watch begins." He heard his young voice again, joined by a thousand others. "It shall not end until my death."

Mygon opened his eyes, still sinking. The words continued: "I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children." Mygon searched is memory for these words he knew as well as his own name, and remembered the very first time he spoke them, under the Sept of Castle Black, guided by the voice of the Septon. "I shall wear no crown and win no glory."

"I shall live and die on my post." Mygon glanced around, as if realizing this wasn't his post. The bottom of a frozen river was not the post of a ranger of the Night's Watch. The very concept seemed like a cruel joke to Mygon. "I am the sword in the darkness."

Mygon looked at the Snowstorm in his hip, seeing it amidst the darkness of the lake. "I am the watcher on the walls." Once again he noticed he was not in his post. He was not in the Walls. He was in the Last River, fighting bandits and allowing himself to stupidly die in a river. What would Mormont think of this stupidity? "I am the fire that burns against the cold." And by the Seven, it was cold. And yet, Mygon felt warm. A warmness that hadn't come over in his soul for many years, the warmth of life, of the will to live.

"The light that brings dawn." And yet there he saw the sun light escaping by the water surface as he sank ever below. It's almost if he had been trying to contradict every piece of the oath, thought Mygon. "The horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of Men."

And yet, he was about to let the realms of Men unguarded and the Wall unmanned. What was wrong with him? Inquired Mygon mentally, why was he allowing himself to sink? Had he no shame? "I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch." And then he realized. Then everything made sense.

Mygon's limbs started to move, his body began to rattle, and soon he swam as fast as possible, above and away from the ship, when he finally realized: His life was not his to give away. It was not his choice to let himself die, just because of something as futile as a loss of hope or will. He did not have the right. He left the depths renewed in body and soul as his purpose re-stated itself in his mind while the surface came ever closer. He felt as young as ever, and more determined than he ever felt.

"For this night, and all nights to come." And thus, for the second time, Mygon's watch began.


	3. Chapter III - Maiden, Mother and Crone

Chapter III – Maiden, Mother and Crone.

…

Mygon's body slumped over the river's shore, with the upper half lying in the dirt while the lower half still lay submerged in the water. Mygon could feel his entire body slowly freezing to death, his clothes drenched in the frosty waters of the Last River. As he vomited some of the river's water and recaptured his breath, he realized that it wouldn't take long for him to die in that temperature.

Mygon crawled to a nearby tree, with noteworthy ease when one accounts the fact one of his legs was entirely useless, and took a moment to recollect his thoughts. Mygon calculated where Mott, Aerys and Robb had fled and given time could probably track them down given enough time. But, given time, he'd also freeze to death, as he noticed his hands shaking from the cold.

The One-Winged Crow quickly removed his coat and his clothes down to the undergarments. It did not take him long to shatter tree branches until he had enough for a fire, but it did surprise him how long it took for the fire to actually start. Winter was indeed coming, thought Mygon. But soon the fire was there, drying his clothes as fast as possible. Mygon himself ran in circles over the fire, analyzing his surroundings and memorizing each stone, tree, snow-filled part of the ground, each flower or animal that crossed his sight, juggling all that information in his mind.

But of course, if these assassins were as determined as he was sure they were, they'd also note the smoke rising in the sky in the middle of that desolated place. In a few hours, Mygon would have company of the most unpleasant kind and he was keenly aware of it. Once his clothes were dry enough, he dressed himself once again and limped his way into the woods, leaving the fire burning behind.

His limp, in fact, was surprisingly easy to handle. Mygon calculated that his dip into the Last River left his leg numb and consequentially rid him of the pain for some hours. He was as unable to walk on two legs as always, but now moving around proved to be a much easier task without that infuriating pain following his every footstep.

Strangely healthy for a man who had just fallen in the frosty water of the Last River, Mygon maneuvered around the trees with calm and ease, and yet speed. He remembered his days as a ranger once more as he slithered from tree to tree as invisible as a shadow and twice as silent, and surprisingly quick for a man with a useless leg.

Suddenly, his ear caught the sound of footsteps. About 20-30 footsteps in Mygon's mind, slowly approaching his position. He stood behind a pine tree, lying in waiting for the men to pass him by. Soon their footsteps became louder, and Mygon could catch some of their conversation, something about bastards and prostitutes. He could not tell from the distance, but he did recognize the voice of the mustached man he spoke to before. Mygon almost chuckled at the thought that he had pissed him off so much, he left with the hunting party to go after him.

Their footsteps then slowly became more and more distant, until at last Mygon could not hear them. His journey across the woods continued, until he gazed upon the smoldering hull of the _Sea_ _Lady_ in the distance.

Around its carcass, Mygon saw several carbonized bodies, and some men in peaceful sleep. When he noticed the empty wine barrels nearby, he realized all those men were dead. By Mygon's calculation, this little gambit combined with his fiery acts led to the death of over half of the assassin squad. And the other half found itself now on the other side of the forest.

"Well this went better than expected." Mygon said out loud. Truth to be told, Mygon expected to be dead at this point. Instead things seemed to be going remarkably well for him. Strange, thought Mygon.

He then walked up to the frozen segment of the river, taking a better look at the poisoned assassins along the way. They were strangely peaceful and calm, and to common eyes they were merely in a profound sleep, as if they could wake at any moment and go back to work. Much like Wights, thought Mygon, thanking the Seven for not being Beyond the Wall, where dead awakening could be an actual issue.

The One-Winged Crow decided to take a closer look and walked amongst the peaceful corpses, taking some time to look at their equipment: Axes, swords, shields, knives. When he passed his fingers over one of the blades he noticed the high quality of the metal, and by the craft of the blade he knew most of their weapons were recently forged. Why would an entire band of assassins have acquired new weapons for this job? The only possible justification would be if it were a high risk or high importance job, and he couldn't see how a recruiter of the Watch, a renegade Maester and his son and a deserter were of that crucial importance. No, Mygon knew he was missing something in this scenario.

He ran his eyes through their clothes, and came to the conclusion that they were locals from the Last Hearth's surrounding areas or they were disguised as such, for their appearance matched up that of the villagers.

But alas, Mygon knew he was wasting time. The rest of the assassins would be back soon and he didn't have the youth to fight off dozens of assassins anymore. He grabbed a bow and a few arrows from the dead bodies and soon directed himself to the frozen waters and nervously took his steps, afraid of the ice breaking under him. Luckily, the ice was as thick as always in that part of the river, and even Mygon with his unflattering limp could walk freely without any fear of it shattering.

Soon he was in the other part of the forest. And in the snow he could see the tracks left by his three companions in their hurry. In fact Mygon was somewhat sure even Maester Aemon could follow those tracks, because subtlety or stealth was not a particular strength of either of those three, specially the child. Mygon thought it would be safer to erase them as he followed, but he also knew that his limp would make the task take far too long, and the assassins would most likely catch up with him.

Mygon thus followed the tracks as fast as a crippled man could, leaving tracks of his own that would most definitely be followed by his pursuers, but Mygon would find a way to deal with that later, or so he hoped. In his pursuit Mygon started to notice the three decided to stay close to the river instead of venturing into the woods. A strange decision, considering they'd be harder to find inside the woods. The day just seemed to get stranger for Mygon with each passing hour.

But then, besides the tracks in the snow, he also smelled smoke. "They made a fire. Delightful." Concluded Mygon with a sigh. On the bright side, at least this meant he was close to them. He sped up the pace as most as he could and before long, he saw a fire in the distance and voices in the air.

"Do you think the Crow killed them all?" Asked Mott, with his hands next to the fire. Even from a distance Mygon could tell that he was shaking not out of cold, but out of terror.

"If he didn't, the poisoned wine probably did. Besides, I see no reason for river bandits to chase us so determinedly. They have the ship." Maester Aerys was farther from the fire, adjusting his thick Maester chain, in physical pain due the stress. Next to him was Robb, the young child, who was trying to roast a dead rabbit by the fire.

"Put out the fire." Said Mygon as he emerged out of the woods, startling all three at the same time. "They'll find us before the sun sets if that fire isn't put out."

"But why?" Asked Maester Aerys in confusion and pain "Why would they chase us? They have the ship!"

"They're not bandits, Aerys." The Wandering Crow sat by a nearby stone, gesturing for Mott to put out the fire. "They're assassins, judging by the way they spoke and their weaponry I would say they're after one of us."

For a brief moment Mygon thought Mott and Aerys had frozen into a block of ice, such was their shock. Both men stared at Mygon without blinking or breathing for several seconds, their expression showing nothing but dread.

Spending some effort not to sound menacing, Mygon stated calmly "Now, I know you're a deserter of the Night's Watch, Mott, but is there any other reason for men to want you dead? The Watch doesn't tend to hire assassins."

Mott was reduced to a tempest of stammering after this statement, as if he couldn't make up his mind between telling Mygon the truth, refuting his accusations or just running away from the Crow.

"I assure you I won't kill you." Mygon lied, but he had learned to lie well in his years wandering Westeros. This calmed down Mott, who prepared to give out an answer.

"I can't see how." He stated, calmer than Mygon had ever seen him be. "I was a petty thief since my youth and I planned on becoming a farmer now. No one would bother sending so many men after me."

For once the oath-breaker had a point; he was indeed intensely unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and Mygon couldn't find any lie in his tongue or expressions, only abject fear. He turned to the Maester, who still stared at him without blinking.

Seeing as he wouldn't speak, Mygon started "What about you?"

Aerys remained in silence, uneasy of what to say next. The One-Winged Crow could almost taste the dread in his soul, a thousand times greater than Mott's. For some reason the Maester valued more secrecy than the fact dozens of assassins were on their way to kill him. What information could be worth so much? If Mygon's analysis was correct, he had just broken one of the Maester's vows, which is granted troublesome, but not worth risking your life for. The Maesters are not the Watch, he'd be just expelled and stripped of his rank, not killed and his child probably wouldn't be harmed either.

In the Maester's dead silence, Mygon analyzed all that he knew about the situation: A group of Assassins sent after this particular group, bearing newly-forged weaponry of high quality steel, dressed in a way that would mask their operations and easily to mistake for simple river thieves. The deed required secrecy and efficiency, so clearly someone really wanted someone dead. Someone reasonably powerful and wealthy, to hire so many men and provide them with so many weapons, and someone public enough for the deed to require so much secrecy.

In this moment, Mygon realized the barely heard words of the woods and something clicked in his mind. Something about bastards and prostitutes. The pieces fell into place, the puzzle came undone.

With surprise in his voice and shock in his eyes he turned to Maester Aerys and stated "He's not your son." Power, wealth and secrecy might as well be the House words of a certain noble family. It all made sense now. "He's a King's Bastard."

Mott's eyes widened to an extent that they seemed about to jump off their orbits. Mott and Mygon both looked directly at Robb, who seemed to be slowly comprehending what all of that meant. Aerys solemnly nodded, with guilt In his head.

"Yes, he is one of Robert's many bastards." Grimly admitted Aerys, looking down on the ground in shame. "Maesters are sworn not to interfere with the affairs of the Realm, but to only serve. But I could stand by and serve no more when I saw an innocent boy be hunted down like a rabid dog by the hounds of Queen Cersei." Aerys had so much spite and hatred in his tone when he said Cersei he took a break to spit in the ground to display his distaste for the Queen. "So I did what needed done. I served the Realm, not its king. I saved one of Robert's heirs, at personal risk."

"But Robert has an heir." Mott interrupted him, mildly confused.

"Joffrey?" The Maester scoffed. "A bastard born of incest. Young Robb has more Baratheon blood than all of Cersei's despicable children combined. He is more worthy of that throne than Joffrey and his cur. And this is why I cannot allow this boy to die. No matter how high the cost." He then turned his eyes to the One-Winged crow, as if asking him what ought to be done now.

Mygon sat by and heard the story as he weighted the possibilities in his mind. He was under oath not to interfere with the affairs of the Realm, and while he saw no problem in killing a few assassins, this was entirely different. This was challenging the very core of Westerosi politics. The Lannisters were not a force to be trifled with. Aerys could plainly see the thoughts going through Mygon's mind.

"What about you, watcher in the wall?" He shouted, breaking Mygon's thoughts. "Would you keep your oath if it meant the death of an innocent child while an incest-borne abomination rules the Realm? Was it not this abomination that led to the downfall of the most honorable Lord Eddard Stark? Is it not due him that our Realm plunges into chaos?"

Mygon stared at the Maester and the child with uneasy eyes. Maester Aerys was correct in his assessment of the situation, but an oath was not a thing to be taken lightly for Mygon. Five decades in the Night's Watch and he never broke his oath. Not once. Now the Seven asked of him to strain his oath to the maximum.

He could have kept thinking for days, but he remembered the assassins were on their way. "This is a matter for another time, as of this moment, we must deal with the Assassins."

"How?" Asked Mott.

"I'm still thinking." Mygon realized he had a cane, a sword, a bow and arrow and fire. Good, but not ideal. He analyzed the geography around them in hopes of finding something useful. Mygon soon spotted a dead skeleton of a big animal, probably a deer, a few meters away from them. The One-Winged crow walked up to it, knelt and sniffed a small amount of snow. "Wolf's piss." He muttered as realization approached him: a wolf's den. Out of all possible places, there they were, close to a wolf's territory.

This was as a terrifying as it was useful. He grinned maliciously and turned to his fellow companions "Mott! Move the fire to this position let it burn."

"Why?" The deserter asked confused

"You'll see." Was Mygon's only answer.

Mott faithfully obeyed, and the fire soon found itself next to the dead carcass, burning brightly in the forest. Mygon glanced around, seeing no sign of wolves for now. "Good job." Said Mygon with some sincerity, despite his distaste for deserters.

"Now, everyone climb up a tree there." And he pointed to an area reasonably far from the carcass, outside of the wolf's territories. Robb, nimble as he was, vanished amongst the branches within seconds. Mott did the same in another tree. Aerys was only able to climb with Mott's help. Mygon had to climb based entirely on the strength of his arms and a single leg, but managed to do it without hassle. "And stay silent." Said Mygon once found himself comfortably sitting in a thick wooden branch.

And thus, they waited for some time. A few minutes, or maybe an hour, perhaps. Mygon's thoughts were muddled by the impending question regarding the royal bastard. It had been a long time since Mygon prayed, quite some time indeed, but Mygon took these handful minutes to pray to the Seven. To the Father, for righteous judgment regarding his oath and this royal bastard, to the Mother for compassion with the child, to the Warrior for victory against these assassins, to the Maiden for...well...Mygon couldn't actually think of anything to pray for the Maiden, so he skipped that one, but for the Smith for skill in his traps, for the Crone for wisdom in this journey, and even for the Stranger, with the mysteries of life Mygon could not identify.

Not after his prayer was finished, he heard the footsteps of the assassins, this time faster and more intense. Mygon rationalized that they had found their dead comrades and Mygon missing, and were not in a charitable mood to say the least. This was confirmed when he glanced the face of their leader; a face of pure, unadulterated rage.

"Where is that fucking crow?" He shouted over and over. "I will have his fucking head!"

They ran towards the fire, weapons drawn, like moths to the flame. "Search for them in every crack and every crevice!" ordered their leader, and thus the assassins spread around the fire in every direction. Mygon merely watched, and before long he heard in the distance, the best possible noise: A wolf's howl.

Startled, the men froze still, raising their weapons in the air in terror. These moments of shock were enough for the wolf pack, fast as lightning, to close the distance in their howling charge.

"There it is." Commented Mygon as he heard the noise of flesh being torn apart as the wolves' fangs shredded cloth and muscles alike in a matter of seconds. Wolves lunged across the air like a projectile from a crossbow, and just as effectively, they tore the throats and organs of fifteen men within a small amount of time. Some of the men managed to bury their weapons in a wolf's flesh, but before they could remove their weapons, another wolf fell upon them. Soon the snow was filled with blood, torn climbs, scattered flesh and a few dying men, screaming for their gods very loudly.

As Mygon expected, a few managed to tear their way through the wolf pack while their comrades formed a shield of slaughter around them. Amongst them, there was the leader of the assassins, the man with the moustache. To this Mygon could only react by stretching the string of his bow with an arrow, taking aim and firing. The arrow pierced the mustached man's neck and he collapsed on the ground, his neck gushing blood. Mygon chuckled heartily as he prepared another arrow when he remembered this was exactly how Darren Left-Foot was killed. Poetic justice, he supposed.

Another arrow, another shredded neck. It did not take long for Mygon to kill every single fleeing man, barring for one, whom he hit in the leg. That one was murdered by the wolves, as he cried for his gods in the snow. Mygon looked and saw that all of them were dead or dying, and the wolves, exhausted and a few dead, retreated to their den and vanished from sight.

He waited a few minutes and climbed down from the tree, and his companions followed suit. Soon he, Aerys, Mott and Robb found themselves gathered over the mangled corpses of the assassins.

Mott fell to his knees and vomited in the snow next to a corpse, seemingly in sheer shock. Aerys looked at the massacre with wide eyes, but maintained his calm, as did the young boy Robb, who seemed to have grown a few shades paler out of sheer terror for this battle.

"We did it." Aerys commented, disbelieving his own words. "We survived."

"Indeed we have, Maester." Mygon grinned to the boy, who smiled back a bit calmer. "I do believe those were the last of them. Let's go, we need to find another boat and get out of here as fast as possible in case they have reinforcements."

Mygon turned his back and prepared to lead the way as the kid walked up to his side. He felt utterly exhausted, having put his body and his mind under extreme strain, and he would be willing to admit that were it not for his cane he would have collapsed into the nothing. He swore to the Seven if his next ship was also attacked by assassins he would skip the trickery and just butcher them all with his cane and sword.

But then, he heard the noise of unsheathed metal ringing in the air. He desperately turned back and saw Maester Aerys with a knife dangerously close to his throat. Wielding the blade there was Mott, with a face of nervousness. Mygon could only stare at Mott for several seconds, his mind standing between a state of wrath and exhaustion.

As if feeling the weight of Mygon's glare, Mott explained himself "The kid is worth more gold than I'll ever see in my life. Just hand him over and no one has to die." He said, gripping the knife.

"I saved your life." The One-Winged Crow stated, with disgust in his tone.

"And I'm saving yours." Said Mott defensively. "Walk with this kid by your side and you'll die before reaching White Harbor. You said it yourself, it's none of your business to deal with the affairs of the Realm." Mygon was even more disgusted by the fact Mott seemed to be entirely honest in his words. "Let me sell him and we'll be rich for lifetimes."

Mygon glanced at Robb, who now had tears in his eyes, looking at the Maester. He looked back at Mott, and then at Maester Aerys. Aerys crossed eyes with him, and looked deeply into Mygon's brown eyes, piercing his very soul. In this moment a wordless exchange of thoughts happened, and the situation was sealed. Aerys nodded.

Gathering all his strength, Mygon said grimly "No."

Aerys smiled, knowing his duty was fulfilled, as Mott slashed his throat from side to side, letting the blood gush over his Maester's chain and robes. While Aerys's corpse fell to the ground, Mott charge forwards, faster than you'd expect for a man like him, and sliced the air towards Mygon's stomach.

The Crow grabbed his wrist mid-air with both hands and headbutted Mott with such strength three of his front teeth were sent flying in the air as blood filled his mouth. With a brisk movement of his cane and a loud crack of Mott's bones, Mygon fractured Mott's arm in such way his own bones pierced the skin, gruesomely exposing the bone beyond the flesh. The deserter whimpered in pain.

Mygon quickly moved his cane and hit dislodged Mott's leg with another hit, once again exposing the bone to the elements. Mott fell to the ground, crying. "Wait!" He begged through gargles of blood, "Wait!". He did not say a third time. Mygon's cane fell down on his head once, twice, three times, four times, five times, six times. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Mygon lost count after fifteen, until at some point he realized he had reduced Mott's head to a mesh of brains, smashed bones and flesh, no longer resembling a human head in any way. The body twitched like a dying animal once before ceasing all movement and laying still, dead.

He lifted his eyes to see Robb, crying by the side of the dead Maester. Mygon slowly approached them, uneasy. The child wept like a son grieving for his father, and Mygon reflected grimly how this humble Maester was more of a father to Robb than the King had been to all of his bastards and legitimate sons. But what good did it do him? Aerys now lay dead in the snow, his deeds forgotten. No history books would remember the Maester or his sacrifice, no songs would be sung about his valiant death, and his name would be lost in the years to come.

No one would remember him. No one but Mygon and Robb. A cripple and a bastard.

Mygon knelt, humming the tune of Maiden, Mother and Crone. The child looked at him, the tune calming him down. Mygon removed Aerys's chain gently and closed down his eyes with his palm. As he hummed the tune, Mygon made a decision.

He gave the Maester's chain to Robb, who guarded it as if it was the royal crown itself. Mygon proceeded to bury Maester Aerys under the snow, fashioning a gravestone out of a common stone. Once that was done, he turned to Robb. "Let us go, child." And thus he turned around, walking away from the battlefield. "You'll be safe with me."

"Goodbye, Maester." Said Robb before running to Mygon's side. The cripple and the bastard carried on, walking away in the distance, chanting in unison merrily to the tune of Maiden, Mother and Crone.


End file.
